Chapter 10 – Canyons and Caverns
Oljata Monument Valley, AZ, UT, to Green River. UT
There’s something spiritually invigorating about watching the day break in the vast expanse of Monument Valley. It’s as if the earth is waking up, yawning and stretching its rocky limbs toward the heavens. The horizon, a mere suggestion in the predawn gloom, began to articulate itself as the first light touched the magnificent buttes and mesas. These monuments, shaped over millennia, stood defiantly against the backdrop of a deep crimson sunrise. With hues of orange and pink seeping into the vast azure, the world felt expansive yet remarkably intimate.
Not another soul in sight. It’s the golden hour, where every grain of sand seems to hold its own story, every shrub, its silent witness to the dance of time. I stood at the edge of the property, captivated by the transformation taking place before me. The family was still fast asleep. The previous evening had been a little complicated, and it soon would be time for a classic fatherly coming of Jesus speech. Arguments over sleeping arrangements, bathroom turns, she’s touching me, I’m tired of her, had all erupted into an all-out war among the females. Was 28 days across the country in a van too much for a family of five? Maybe. But there was no turning back now.
After packing the van, I assembled Diem and the girls in the kitchen and said my peace. It was a classic cliche: I’ll turn this van around and go home right now if attitudes don’t improve, and empty threats of never going on vacation again. I was assured with the utmost vigor that they did, in fact, want to be on vacation, and they would, in fact, be nicer to one other. We will see. With this formality out of the way, we ate a simple breakfast of bacon, eggs, and Jennie’s favorite corn congee, which is really just cheese grits with fish sauce and green onions.
It was still early when we left the house and headed down the dusty sand road towards the highway. By now, the sun had climbed high enough to bathe its intense rays across the landscape. Though sunward, the buttes and mesas were washed out into a blinding darkness. An intense and unusual scene. As we drove up the famous US-163, the world seemed to unfold. The vast expanses flickering out into the distant horizon. The scope and scale of southern Utah’s open spaces are purely humbling.
As the sun climbed higher, its rays began to strike the westward faces of the buttes, illuminating them in a brilliant, fiery glow. With the entire landscape bathed in this rich, warm light, it was easy to imagine Butch Cassidy, the Lone Ranger, or Rooster Cogburn trotting between these titanic stone structures, their romanticized lives dictated by the rhythms of wind and sand.
Diem looked on from her perch in the passenger seat with that familiar gleam in her eye, the one she gets when she sees something genuinely awe-inspiring. As immigrants, especially for her, America was more than a new home—it was a vast treasure trove of wonder, strangeness, amazement, and every other imaginable experience waiting to be uncovered. Around every corner lay unexpected and beautiful landscapes to explore. I remember first moving to Vietnam; every experience was new and exciting, no matter how mundane or ordinary. I knew she was having those same emotions now. A rare and unique feeling.
It’s said that the best travelers leave only footprints and take only memories, but the reality is a bit more nuanced. As we drove north towards Canyonlands National Park, the images of Monument Valley—those majestic mesas, the interplay of light and shadow, and the pure, unfiltered emotion they evoked—remained etched in my mind. These emotions are only amplified by the newness of Diem’s exposure to America. Our trip had, by now, taken on a life of its own. The sheer thrill of each turn in the road and what may come next transformed the experience into a chase. Constantly pushing further for the next thrill. The next cliff to look down from, the next mountain to look up to.
As we rose above the valley floor, signs for scenic spots ahead and beware of pedestrians began to dot the roadside. Then, in my rearview mirror, an unmistakable scene unfolded. I pulled off at a turnout and stepped out of the van. There, stumbled upon by chance, the place where Forest Gump decided to stop running. I knew the scene was shot in the area but made no effort to pinpoint its location. Yet, as if by providence, here it was. We took some time to get some great shots of the immensely moving landscape before continuing on.
Further down the road, we crossed the San Juan River, and I stopped again to take in the scene. A rippling river flowing along, winding its way through the red rocks, a perfect oasis in the midst of dry land. Its waters were silty, testifying to the journeys of many raindrops down the mountains and plateaus. The river’s banks were dotted with the hardy desert greenery, their roots reaching deep for that life-giving moisture. As I glanced around, juxtaposing the calm river with the ruggedness of the crimson cliffs, my mind couldn’t help but wander to the tales of ancient civilizations that might have thrived here, drawing sustenance from this river. Or European’s first glimpse at these hostile and formidable landscapes and what their minds may have thought. How many travelers, like ourselves, had stopped here to rest, marvel, and dream?
Crossing the river ahead, a bridge loomed, its arc echoing the curves of the hills around—the elegance of human engineering standing amidst nature’s raw power. While mankind’s marvels often stand isolated from nature, here they seemed to exist in harmony, each paying respect to the other. The small bridge spanning the San Juan looked as if it belonged as much as any scrub or stone. The girls, by now, wrapped up in a morning nap. I stood overlooking the river and bridge and pondered our position in the cosmos before climbing back in the van and continuing north.
The road stretched ahead, a ribbon of tarmac threading through an ever-changing landscape of canyons, plateaus, and riverbeds. As the car’s tires hummed a gentle monotone, I couldn’t help but think of the generations of travelers, explorers, and settlers who ventured through this rugged terrain, each on their quest. Our quest seemed to be a tapestry of family moments, shared adventures, and the continuous discovery of the beauty of America’s vast landscapes. As we approached the rugged grandeur of Canyonlands, with its carved valleys and towering spires, it promised a worthy continuation of our journey.
By late morning, we encountered the unexpected sight of Wilson’s Arch, not within a bustling national park but on BLM land. It stood proudly by the highway, a window into the heavens, formed by nothing but time and the elements. As a few other explorers clambered around its base, I felt the weight of the eons under that rock, the gentle touch of breezes that sculpted it, and the tireless perseverance of nature.
Formed in what is known as Entrada Sandstone over eons, superficial cracks in the stone would fill with water and freeze in the harsh winters. This action caused further damage to the sandstone. As the water melted in the extreme heat, wind further carved out the cracks and crevices until large parts of the formations collapsed, leaving behind what is referred to now as fins. The mechanisms of wind and rain continued to erode the fins until parts weakened to the point of collapse, and the central parts of the fins gave way. Leaving behind the famous arches that dot the Utah landscape today.
I stood transfixed at the mighty arch standing ever powerfully above. There was a trail that led to both its top and center, but with the girls fast asleep and a National Park to get to, I did not linger. I stood for a few minutes in the building heat, admiring nature’s work. But there was much, much more to see.
We stopped just south of Moab near the entrance to Canyonlands for a quick lunch. It was clear that Dinosaurs played a considerable part in the local economy, as we had stopped at a museum, gift shop, and small aquarium themed by that ancient time when the mighty beasts roamed the earth. We enjoyed concession-style burgers, hot dogs, and fries next to fossilized footprints, discussing the afternoon’s coming adventure.
After lunch, we turned onto Utah 313 and wound our way toward the north entrance of Canyonlands National Park. The landscape again morphed into a new terrain. As we climbed to the top of the mesa, the land spread out into the distance as a flat, scrub-filled plateau. At the entrance, we stopped for a picture at the sign, but the sun was so blinding I took photos of the family waiting instead of us. A four-by-four stood some distance before the sign as a cell phone perch for family selfies, but I had the selfie stick. If only I could see. We did eventually realize our mistakes and got the shot. After solving the problem of getting a great picture in blinding sunlight, we continued into the park and Island in the Sky Visitor’s Center.
At the north entrance sits the aptly named Island in the Sky. Before arriving, the area’s name conjured many images of why it was called this and what it might look like. It was a peninsula jutting out into the Canyon, connected to the rest of the Mesa by a narrow strip of land. A worn path of stone stairs wound down the ridge onto the plateau. Giving an illusion of a floating patch of earth levitating a thousand feet above the canyon floor. I found a parking space at the visitor’s center, and we went down the dusty trail.
The view from the peninsular plateau was breathtaking. The Canyon unfolded into the distance, and the mighty San Juan mountains, which we had crisscrossed a few days prior, filled the horizon. Diem walked ahead and stood at the edge, captivated by the scope of the scene. Seeing where we had been days ago was an exciting feeling. From here, we could see for well over a hundred miles.
We gathered for a selfie, and then the girls lit off to explore the plateau. Climbing on weathered Juniper trees and crawling around crevices in the worn rock. I spotted a dusty dirt road switchbacking down the dizzying cliff to the canyon floor, and I walked over for a closer look. Known as Shafer Trail, the road hugs the canyon wall, dropping an astounding 1,400 feet in a harrowingly short distance. I gazed at the road as several vehicles maneuvered its challenging path. The trail leads to the Park’s backcountry and the 100-mile-long White Rim Road. I stood in cautious admiration. This would not be a path we would be traveling.
From the visitor’s center, we trudged further into the Park. Driving down the highway, we could feel the world expand before us. The canvas of the road was brushed with colors of golden wheat and touches of orange wildflowers, all punctuated by that vast expanse of blue up above. The sky was a masterpiece of fluffy white clouds moving with some ethereal purpose, providing the kind of daydream backdrop you’d expect from a picturesque painting of the American West.
As we drew closer to the heart of the Park, the details of her environment became more apparent. Here and there, fiery red blossoms pierced through the green and earthy tones, making the desert landscape pop with an unexpected vibrancy. These bursts of color looked like they had been painted on, but a closer look revealed they were globe mallows – nature’s little brushstrokes on its vast canvas.
And then there was the road itself. Meandering through the vast openness, it promised adventures at every turn. We drove along, our trusty vehicle eating up the miles, windows down to let the warm, earthy air flood in. It was a sensation of pure freedom.
“It’s so beautiful,” Diem whispered, her voice filled with reverence. She was gazing out at the vast stretch of the canyon before us. By now, we had reached Its grandeur was undeniable. Canyonlands was a testament to nature’s power to both destroy and create. Erosion had carved out deep gorges over millennia, but life had found a way to bloom in those recesses.
And bloom it did. Tucked beside a rust-colored boulder was a patch of peculiar green plants, their leaves dusted with silver. Tendrils snaked out, culminating in fuzzy pink bulbs. It was a sight to behold, these tiny desert peas seeming to cuddle against the rock for warmth or perhaps companionship. Jennie, always the curious one, squatted beside them. “They’re so soft!” she exclaimed, touching one gently.
From here, we pressed deeper into the park to the Green River viewpoint. By now, the afternoon was pushing forward, and the heat began to mount. The girls, ready for an afternoon nap in the cool van, decided to forego this stop. Alone, I walked the hundred yards or so to the overlook and saw something I was not prepared for. There, a ribbon of green slithered through a canyon deep within another canyon. Canyons in canyons. The scope and feel of this fantastic scene are indescribable now, even with the pictures to look back on. A massive canyon, a hundred miles wide, stretched out before us, with the Green River Canyon winding through it. 200 miles away in the distance, Mount Telluride, which we snaked across several days prior. I stood in astonishment for some time, philosophizing the scene.
The winding Green River, etched deep within the heart of Canyonlands, is a testament to the inevitable passage of time and nature’s resolute determination. At a casual glance, one may see just a meandering ribbon of green amidst a vast expanse of rock, but it’s so much more than that. It’s a story written by the elements, whispered by the winds, and narrated by the shifting sands. As the river snakes its way through the immense canyons, one cannot help but ponder the paradox of fragility and strength. The water, gentle in its flow, can carve out stone, shaping the earth beneath our feet. It reminds us of the soft, persistent touch of time, slow yet unstoppable.
Gazing out, it’s almost as if time stands still, yet simultaneously marches on inexorably. The canyon walls rise high, their stratified layers revealing eons of history. They’ve witnessed the dawn of creatures, the rise and fall of empires, and the quiet, undisturbed nights where only stars bore witness to their majesty. The canyon, a massive scar in the crust of the Earth, finds renewal and rebirth deep at its heart. These walls have been silent spectators to countless sunrises, each promising a new day, a fresh start. Yet, amidst this vastness, the Green River is the lifeblood. The pulse gives vibrancy to this arid land, an oasis of hope in an otherwise stark terrain. Its waters whisper tales of resilience, of life’s ability to thrive against all odds. Reflecting the intricate balance of time, strength, and the will to endure.
After some time gazing out into the distance, I was again called to the van by the reality that we must press on. It was a few hours to Green River, Utah. Our resting place for the night. It would be another hard push tomorrow as we had to get across Utah and back into Wyoming by sundown tomorrow. What an incredibly amazing journey it is already been. There is nothing particular planned for tomorrow other than driving. But, based on our travels so far, I suspect there’s something unique we can find along the way, for the new day is another opportunity beneath this beautiful and endless sky.
To explore some of the Parks and Monuments we’ve explored and more, click here for the National Park Services.
